Final Destination: 221b Baker Street
by LollyMc
Summary: Sherlock foresees a terrible explosion on a crime scene and manages to save the lives of Donavon, Anderson, Lestrade, John and Himself. Death, however, is not finished with them. Will they manage to escape the grim reaper? Please read and review! x
1. Chapter 1

Final Destination: 221b Baker Street

Chapter 1 – Premonition

**Summary: Sherlock foresees a terrible explosion on a crime scene and manages to save the lives of Donavon, Anderson, Lestrade, John and Himself. Death, however, is not finished with them. Will they manage to escape the grim reaper? **

**Rating: M – for gore, violence and some J/S slash.**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately I don't own Sherlock (or Benedict :'( CRY!). It sucks but it's true. I also don't own the Final Destination franchise. If I did, I'd probably be super stinking crazy rich ;)**

**Enjoy and review! **

The air was buzzing with activity. Like bees in a hive the police drones darted around, everyone with their own officially appointed jobs, dutifully going about their business with the frenzy only caused by a quadruple homicide.

Everyone had their place.

Except Sherlock Holmes that is. He wandered in and out of the large and mostly disused storage depot like a wraith, ignored by everyone except John Watson who followed him loyally as a dog.

Four dead, he noted. All shot through the neck, causing massive damage. In the case of one victim, who Sherlock deduced was shot at point blanc, the force was enough to decapitate him. It was a messy business.

From the shape and size of the bullet wounds the murderer had used hunting ammunition, the kind which expands once it enters the body causing considerably more damage than the average bullet. Someone had wanted to cause these people pain.

The victims were all white males working for the storage company, though after a brief check through half a dozen boxes Holmes quickly came to realise that this was no ordinary company. He suspected links to drug dealing, sex trafficking and arms deals.

The murderer looked to be somewhere just shy of six foot, judging from the position of the blood splatters, and of a hefty build, strong as an ox. There were red marks on the neck of each victim, so the murderer had knocked them down with one clean blow then proceeded to shoot them and leave them to bleed to death.

Sherlock had a lot to be going on as far as evidence was concerned and once he contacted the business manager of the storage firm he was certain he could pinpoint exactly which disgruntled member of the clientele had committed this crime.

It was all in a morning's work for Sherlock.

With evidence gathered and the bodies examined and moved away, the police force plus their unemployed volunteer (or consulting detective as Holmes preferred to call himself) and _his_ assistant gathered in the kitchen area which would have been used by staff when the business formerly operate legally.

Sherlock was buzzing with caffeine and adrenaline, chattering away excitedly to John who was listening eagerly, his eyes glinting with the danger of it all. It was then that Sherlock smelt it. That slightly overpowering, dangerously potent scent of petrol.

Quick as a hawk Sherlock darted his eyes around the cafeteria-style room. There! One of the officers had dragged a small-ish crate in to the room and perched on it. Only Sherlock had observed the near invisible trail of flammable liquid that had followed it.

His eyes followed the line of liquid, watching it trail round the corner into a different storage room. He remembered. That was the room where the moving and lifting vehicles were stored. Along with the fuel they needed. And that blasted ridiculously stupid police officer was lighting a cigarette.

Suddenly the scent of the petrol was too much, the fumes made him feel lightheaded and his vision blurred and he was underwater. He was drowning too and he could see the people around him looking anxious but it was still as if he was under and they were above the water and John was reaching a hand in to save him and Lestrade was looking worried and Anderson and Donavon were sneering and smirking. Then he blacked out.

* * *

When the darkness cleared the scene hadn't changed and no one was looking at him. Well, John was, but intently as if he was waiting for Sherlock to finish a story.

Sherlock looked at the trail of petrol again and back to the officer. His lighter wouldn't work. Every time his finger clicked the flint it sparked, but there was no flame. Not yet.

Donavon said she needed to go the ladies' room and stalked off. Holmes tried to call out to her but something was choking his voice. He realised he couldn't pinpoint why he didn't want her to leave but it was important. But she went. She wasn't going to listen to the freak.

Then he saw it. The same stupid, damned police officer was throwing his lighter to the ground in frustration. The world slowed. Sherlock watched with a feeling of muted horror as he saw the little red plastic tube bounce twice, then spark igniting a burning trail of flames that licked along, around the corner. Following Donavon.

Holmes yelled suddenly but his voice was lost in an explosion which rendered them all momentarily deaf. Burning orange flames burst through the doorway and Sherlock was sickened when he recovered his hearing. All he could hear was Sally Donavon's blood curdling scream.

They had to get out. He had to get John out. Where was John? Why couldn't he see him? The whole room was smoking, burning his eyes. As it dissipated Sherlock felt his panic wane a bit when he saw John stumbling to get up. He had a gash in his leg that was bleeding and Sherlock felt the need to hurl but he swallowed his fear and nausea and grabbed John, hugging him close.

"We have to get out," Sherlock managed to choke through the oppressive smoke.

John nodded but didn't speak, just pointed limply to the fire exit. The two stumbled over and Holmes attempted to ignore the bodies of police officers crawling around. Many were injured but he could make out Anderson and Lestrade standing against the other wall.

He beckoned to them urgently, and with yet more stumbling and choking, they made it to the door.

Then John let out a low guttural moan of pure despair. Sherlock watched as the hope drained from the doctors eyes. That was when he noticed that heat had fused the metal door edge and frame together.

Another pounding explosion shook the building. Hairline fractures in the dilapidated walls suddenly became cracks. Sherlock looked around. Where could they go? The entrance was blocked with flames. The fire exit was welded shut.

In an instant his bones weighed a million tons. They were going to die. _John_ was going to die. And it was all his fault. He'd said it. He'd said this would be dangerous. And like Sherlock knew he would, John had come. And now he was never going to leave.

So when, for the first time in his life panic threatened to overwhelm Sherlock Holmes the only thing that calmed him was someone gently squeezing his hand and pointing to a fire extinguisher in the corner, then to the flames.

Sherlock found strength in the fact that there was a slim chance John might not die. If they could get to the roof. If they could just get up there then they'd be ok. He remembered an iron stairwell. They could get down.

With frightening energy, Sherlock ran to the little red cylinder of hope and then rushed to the flames. The heat was so intense he began sweating immediately. Pulled the pin, pressed the leaver, the foam sprayed out.

It wasn't enough to douse all the flames but it created a passage of escape.

Sherlock yelled into the smoky room to John, and now Lestrade and Anderson who were helping the weak doctor walk.

"COME ON!"

The four of them rushed through the burning corridor. A body, charred and blackened lay next to another storage room.

Anderson paled, "Sally," he whispered.

"NO TIME!" Sherlock grabbed the grieving forensics man by the collar and yanked hard, pointing to a concrete stairwell leading up to another floor.

As the flames licked up another crate in a different storage room, away from the eyes of the consulting detective, Sherlock was practically dragging John up in his haste to get out. Anderson had fallen behind and Lestrade was convincing him that they had to leave. Now.

Yet another crate exploded and the whole building shook. Its foundations were crumbling. Holmes notice cracks forming in the weak, old concrete and in a frenzied hurry, slung John over his shoulder. He protested weakly but the noise was drowned out.

A heavy, long piece of the stairway had cracked off and was teetering. Sherlock looked down. Anderson was standing directly below it. He tried to scream but over the crackling flames he couldn't be heard.

The piece fell, tumbled, turned in mid-air. Sherlock noted its strange beauty before it fell on top of Anderson's head. The noise of the flames dimmed and all he could now hear was the crashing, sickening sound of a cracking skull and the nearly comical squishing of brains. It was all too much. Holmes threw up violently.

Lestrade panicked, never having seen this kind of carnage so close up. Desperately, he scrambled up the still crumbling stairs, a small part of him noting that Sherlock and John had clambered to the second floor.

A few stairs had fallen away completely. It left an ugly, frightening gap. Lestrade thought he could make it. Tensing, he leapt. He was wrong. His torso hit the concrete with an ugly smack. A massive pain burst across his chest. His fingers were scrabbling, his nails scratching, trying to hold on to anything.

Holmes watched in horror. He had to save him. He had to save Lestrade. He couldn't watch this man die. Propping John up against a wall, far away from the stairway, he carefully made his way back to the hanging man.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade choked out and balancing his centre of gravity, Sherlock reached out a long arm.

He didn't notice it until it was too late. As their fingers locked together, the ledge from which Lestrade had leapt teetered, falling forwards, crushing him, squeezing the life out.

A tear dropped from Sherlock's eye, wetting his cheeks.  
"No," He screamed, "NO! Lestrade!"

Sherlock took the man's face in his hands and cradled it. There was no time to grieve, he told himself, be strong for John. Get John out. You can't let him die.

Legs burning from exertion he dashed back up the remainder of the stairs and blanched. John was unconscious.

He had to get him out then immediately get him help.

Determination and willpower calmed him. He forgot his grief and horror momentarily and assessed their chances.

He saw another fire escape. This one had a window. And he could see the escape stairwell. It would be tricky carrying John out, but Sherlock could do it, he convinced himself.

Once again grasping the doctor by his middle, Sherlock pulled. Why was the man so heavy? He cursed and grunted, heaving.

Finally with a great effort he managed to get him outside. They were close to safety now. It was going to be ok.

Rain was falling now, hard. Sherlock had to be careful with his footing.

He put the doll-like John on his front, wrapping his hands round Sherlock's neck and his legs around his middle and holding him close with one hand. It was the most secure position the panicked man could think of.

Carefully, Sherlock kicked the first ladder down, so it nearly reached the second balcony, the one with the fused door.

His heart was beating so hard he felt it was going to jump out his chest. One foot, one hand, Sherlock thought.

But he hadn't pushed the ladder down far enough. Nor noticed the extremely slippery first step. His petrol lubricated shoe touched the metal it moved and Sherlock panicked, grabbed the rungs with both hands...and let go of John.

The man slipped, sickeningly slowly through the air, his limbs flailing. And Sherlock watched, silently. No. It couldn't have happened. John hit the hard metal. He looked broken. Broken was bad.

Then, Holmes felt himself falling. But he was still holding onto the rungs. Ah, he thought, the ladder is falling.

With icy detachment he watched as the bottom rungs punctured John's chest.

He'd killed him. Twice over. Bringing him here. Dropping him. He was a murderer.

Sherlock climbed down, ignoring the fact every muscle in his body was shaking so hard it hurt. He sat next to the still and bloody body of his best friend.

He stroked the pale, smoke-darkened cheek, looking at the charcoal that stained his fingers. It was being washed off now. Not by the rain. Sherlock touched his own cheek. It was wet and hot.

Tears, he thought.

Quiet as a mouse Sherlock lay down next to John. He took the man's hand and watched the rain fall into his eyes and blur. When the walls of the building burst apart, like a balloon popping in slow motion, it was inconsequential. What did life matter now?

The rubble encompassed the two friends and Sherlock fell once again into the blackness.

* * *

The sudden blackness didn't surprise him. What did surprise him was that he was woke up.

And it was like that first time. Only this time Sherlock was surrounded people. Donavon, Anderson, Lestrade, _John. _Why was he so blindingly relieved to see John?

He scrabbled around. There was a sense of danger and he tried to grasp it. It was impossible, like trying to remember a dream the morning after. It was slippery as smoke.

_Smoke. Slippery. Fire. Blood. Death. John. John. __**John.**_

Sherlock looked around. That damned officer was _still _trying to light his fag, and looked about to throw it away in frustration. Then it him.

They had to get out. Now.

Grabbing John by the hand he raced the fire exit, followed by the rest of his table. Once outside, it started to rain.

Sherlock Holmes ran and ran and ran, pulling Watson behind him, their heels swiftly followed. When the first explosion sounded Holmes still didn't stop even though John was yelling and panting and protesting.

When they reached a grassy knoll, half a mile away Sherlock was satisfied and let himself flop to the ground. John didn't ask any questions. Not yet. He just collapsed next to his friend and clasped the shaking hand Sherlock offered.

**Right, sorry because my intended beta reader was away doing stuff and I find it absolutely tedious to beta my own stuff. So if there are silly mistakes, then forgive me!**

**But please review. I need the constructive criticism/encouragement **

**Love x o x o x o x o x o x**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - Realisation

**Hey you guys thanks for the fantastic response on the last chapter. If you need a break from all the angst check out the new Small Comforts fic chapter :D **

**Love you loads and hope sad!shattered!Sherlock isn't too depressing :/ **

**MOST LOVE to my beta read, Q, love of my life ;)**

**Please review! x o x o x o x**

John paced the wooden floorboards of their flat, occasionally looking at the silent man on the sofa.

He was intensely worried about him. It was harrowing to see the usually energetic and vibrant man so still, so introverted.

And the worse thing was that Sherlock would not look at John, he wouldn't acknowledge him at all.

From what little snippets of speech Sherlock had managed to get out once they finished running, John gathered that he'd had some sort of vision.

Using his own, albeit second-rate, powers of deduction John decided this must be what had so violently shaken him.

Sherlock's entire work ethic consisted of observation, of facts, of reasonable links. He was not a superstitious man. And yet this vision had been so vivid, so real that it made him react like this, turning into himself.

Then it had come true.

John sighed and went to sit by Sherlock. Neither said anything for a long while and John contented himself with studying his friend's face.

Nothing. The emotions going on below the surface were so well hidden that Sherlock could have been a waxwork. A beautiful waxwork.

"Sherlock," John whispered, "You have to tell me what you saw,"

Sherlock turned his head, almost mechanically back and forth. No.

"Please," he tried, "I need to know why you're so..."

Sherlock glanced at John and he faltered. Those icy blue eyes looked so _sad. _So sad, as if they carried within them the weight of the world.

John tried once more, squeezing Sherlock's hand, "Please,"

Then there was a reaction. Sherlock shut his eyes and opened his mouth.

"All those people," came the strained whisper, "John, all those people. I could have saved them all,"

John made a noise of protestation but Sherlock carried on, ignoring him.

"If I'd just said _no_ _don't throw that,_" Sherlock's eyes had glazed over with tears, "Then they'd all be alive. They died because I am stupid John, so stupid,"

A tear rolled down his cheek and Sherlock looked away. This wasn't right. John shouldn't see him like this. So weak and pathetic. He knew it was bad, it was hurting him.

And John was hurt. He felt a deep pain in his stomach, a stab and he held Sherlock like a drowning man holds a lifeline.

The two stayed locked like that until Sherlock finally moved. He disentangled, stood up and turned away.

When he looked back his eyes were hard and he was ready to tell John, though he suspected it would hurt him even more.

"I _saw_ it John. I saw it all. The fire, the collapse, everything. I saw us all die. It played out as if it were actually happening. I _died_. Then I woke up,"

John was speechless. When he got his voice back he exhaled deeply.

"How did I die?" he asked in a very small voice.

Sherlock shuddered visibly, "That's the worst thing. I can't remember. It's as if...I _know_ we all died. And from my," he paused, "feelings, it was bad. But it's so vague. It's just sensations. Heat and pain and fear,"

He shook again and twisted his hands together, worrying in a most uncharacteristic way.

He could feel the blood on them. Their blood. All those people, dead. All his fault. So much blood. He was drowning again.

"I need a shower," he blurted and stalked off.

John exhaled and dropped his head in his hands. How could he convince Sherlock that despite the horrific scale, terrible accidents do happen? People died every day in fires and explosions. This was no different.

And it was shocking to Watson to see these deaths weigh so heavily on his soul. Never before, even in the most brutal serial killer cases had John seen his friend like this.

Sighing, he switched on the TV. Any distraction was welcome.

"_The main headlines once again. The death toll at the explosion of Mill & Miller's Depot is currently stopped at 26,"_

John grimaced and was glad Sherlock was in the bathroom.

"_An exclusive source told the channel today that the toll would have been 5 higher had not a young detective been concerned about something outside, evacuating himself and close colleagues from the room shortly before the explosion took place,"_

John swore under his breath. Fucking Anderson. He was going to kill him. Anything for a bit of fame or money, the _prick_.

He turned the telly off in disgust and looked at the old wall clock. Quarter to twelve. John rubbed his tired eyes. He couldn't remember ever feeling more exhausted but he doubted he would be getting any sleep tonight.

Sherlock emerged, hair wet and dripping on his pyjamas. John gave him a weak smile but it wasn't returned. He went into his bedroom without a word and shut the door behind him.

In all his medical career, John couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to go and comfort someone so much.

Because in Sherlock's case he didn't have any physical wounds, _he_ was injured. All the crazy and irritating and brilliant and beautiful things that made him _him_ seemed to have been broken. He was a shell.

John sloped off to bed, feeling heavy with grief.

That night Sherlock dreamt of fire and death again. But the burning pictures were interspersed with odd, out of place objects. A glass of water, condensation slowly dripping down the side. Blood. A plug socket. Screams. Wires. Blood. A ceiling fan.

Sherlock woke up sweating all over and screaming. The door burst open and a sleepy-eyed John rushed to his side.

Sherlock hadn't realised he was sobbing until John crawled on top of the bed and stroked his hair. Then the little shakes and tears began to stop and he felt ashamed.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John asked softly, murmuring into his friend's hair.

Sherlock shook his head. They sat like that for a long while, John's hands still twining through the fine strands.

Just as the detective was drifting off to sleep again, he muttered, clutching John's free hand.

"I didn't understand it," he whispered, "I'm...scared,"

Then he was asleep and John was tempted to stay just in case he screamed again, but Sherlock was fragile and he didn't think he'd react well to the change.

Hours later John was woken from his own bed by the irritating metallic ringing of the phone. Momentarily he forgot the past day's events and groaned at the fact that he'd have to go get it; Sherlock was too lazy to get the phone during the day let alone at, John winced, 4am.

When he finally got downstairs (his leg was killing him) he found a pale-white Sherlock holding the phone by his side.

In an instant it all came rushing back and John was glad for his cane, he thought his knees would buckle.

"What's wrong?" He asked Sherlock, because it was clear from the haunted look in his eyes something _was_ terribly wrong.

He didn't reply, just stood there, staring at the wall. A tinny noise came out the phone. It was Lestrade's voice.

John gently took the phone from Sherlock's limp grip.

"Lestrade what's going on?"

"It's Sally Donavon," he replied huskily, "She's dead."

**What do lot think? Please review.**


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